


Simply an Irrevocable Truth

by Just-Like--Clockwork (HeartOfIron)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/F, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Lawyers AU, proposal au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartOfIron/pseuds/Just-Like--Clockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Proposal/Lawyers AU: When immigration threatens to deport high flying lawyer, Emma Swan, back to her native Canada, she hatches a scheme to marry her colleague in order to keep her visa and, more importantly, her job. Killian Jones, senior associate under Emma, agrees to her proposal as long as she promises him a promotion. But, in order to sell their relationship to a disbelieving INS agent, the pair must travel to Storybrooke, Maine to visit with Killian’s family. Funny how home can sometimes reveal more about a person than you ever even realised there was to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simply an Irrevocable Truth

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t written fic in an age and I am completely daunted by the sheer talent and standard in this fandom. I humbly submit my contribution and hope for some feedback, good or bad. This is a Multi-chapter ff, set over 5 parts. It will be rated M in later chapters. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, hard.

Grace, the firm’s newest intern, is gazing at him, terrified. Her hands appear to be trembling on her knees. He can acutely remember himself telling her, her very first day on the job; the number one rule is to never come between Emma Swan and her morning latte. And Grace has definitely had enough experiences with her by now to know that crossing Ms Swan is  _never_ a good idea.

“So, it’s gone,” he reiterates, even though it’s fairly obvious from the large, dark stain spread across the front of Grace’s shirt and jacket. He watches from across his desk as Grace’s wide blue eyes begin to water. She must be only out of law school, fresh faced with a tender ego and Killian Jones always had a soft spot for the naïve. His brother calls it a mild hero complex.

“Bloody hell, lass, don’t cry,” this only seems to make things worse and the younger girl starts to whimper, eyes falling to her lap where her hands are now clasped together.

“She’s going to fire me,” her voice trembles and Killian makes an active effort not to verbally agree. She’ll probably do worse than fire her and,  _damn it_ , he actually likes Grace. She’s not entirely incompetent. 

“Ms Hatter!” Grace flinches in her seat, swiftly rubbing the heel of her hand across her cheeks and standing resolutely. She looks like a prisoner awaiting execution.

_As if she’d ever be that merciful_ , Killian thinks dryly.

 “Incoming,” he mutters, heaving himself out of his expensive leather chair to stand beside Grace.

She doesn’t bother knocking, steaming through his door, stopping squarely in front of them. The youngest lawyer to ever make partner in the history of Gold & French, Emma Swan is nothing short of a vision, all long legs and angelic blonde curls. A vision Killian Jones sometimes dreams will get hit by a cab. Or a bus. She’s wearing her signature pencil skirt, white shirt combo, teetering just below him in mile-high heels. In the courtroom, she’s just as formidable. He’s watched grown men look at her hungrily, under estimating her abilities in order to appreciate her calves, and then be reduced to inarticulate monkeys as she tears their case to shreds. He’d admire her if he didn’t think she was such a deplorable excuse for a human being.

“Swan, whatever can I do for you on this fine morning?” he knows his smile is annoyingly bright and that his demeanour will irritate her. They’ve never gotten along, but he finds she’s scraping against his every last nerve, what with the way she’s gazing down her nose at Grace, eyes flickering with disdain when they snap back to him.

“I was looking for Ms Hatter, actually,” her voice is hard, arms crossing over her chest, “and my coffee. Which is where exactly, Grace?”

He has to give her one thing, though. Emma Swan is a year younger than he is, smaller and far more petite than most of her own peers and his fellow senior associates, but she always manages to give the impression of the being the most powerful person in the room. Most of his colleagues are convinced she’s actually a terrorist. And they’re high flying lawyers, they’re all cut throat. But she is something else.

Grace cowers under her gaze, shrinking back as he takes a step forward, hand outstretched, palm upturned.

_Don’t, you idiot,_  he can practically hear his best mate’s voice in his head, scolding,  _she’ll find a way to screw up your week and you need this vacation, man._

“Swan, about that,” her eyes are narrowing before the first syllable is out and he runs his tongue quickly over his dry lips, “it was my fault. I wasn’t concentrating, knocked the poor lass right over when I came out of the lift.”

Her lips purse, he can practically hear  _elevator, Jones, it’s an elevator_ on her breath. Beside him, Grace has turned to stare up in shocked reverence.  _Play it cool,_ he just about prays, forcibly widening his smile.

“You’re telling me that it was  _my_ coffee I stepped over on my way down here this morning,” he offers her a half-hearted, one shoulder shrug as his hand comes up to scratch behind his ear, a nervous tick he developed as a child.

Slowly, arms still crossed, Emma Swan looks between the two of them, unblinking. He’s pretty sure she could snap him in half if she wanted to.

“Get me another coffee, Jones,” she’s out the door before he has a chance to sigh his relief.

“Do me a favour, Grace, and get Ms Swan her latte. As soon as humanly possible.”  He knows he sounds weary, because he is, and it’s only eight thirty five on a Thursday and he still has two whole days to get through and it would be typical that this has to be a week where he’s on a case with her. His hand cards through his hair roughly.

“Mr Jones, I don’t – thank you  _so_  much!” Grace’s eyes are beginning to fill again, but her grin is wide and endearing and Killian can’t bring himself to be sorry.

“Don’t mention it, okay?” he says, pushing Grace’s chair back into place in front of his desk, “Ever. It didn’t happen.” She nods dumbly, eyes still gleaming as she backs out the door and he can hear it against the tiles as she breaks out into a jog towards the lift.

Emma Swan is going to make his life a living hell, will probably find some god forsaken reason that he has to stay in the city this weekend and he’ll miss seeing his family and his best friends, might even miss one of his oldest mates becoming a father, all because of Emma Swan and her  _fucking_ coffee addiction.

He sighs, sinking into his chair, heading fall downing onto the mahogany. He is not paid enough for this.

/

It is not unusual for the Mr Gold to call Emma up to his office. Not even on a Thursday morning. She can’t help up wonder if it’s about her next pay raise. After all, she did close the Boyd case without so much as batting an eyelid.

She knows she’s a damn good lawyer and if she concentrates on that, she can ignore the way her colleagues look at her like the want to dismember her. Slowly.

She does not stop to address Gold’s receptionist (Gertrude or Gretel or some equally ridiculous name), fingers grazing the solid oak before she knocks hard, once, against the door. Without hesitating, she swings it open to find Mr Gold and his partner, Belle French, waiting for her, peering out across the New York skyline; being one of the top legal companies in the city pays, if only in the views.

“Emma, dearie, good morning,” they’re the only two people in the entire company she allows to address her by her given name. Aside from being her bosses, she genuinely likes the couple. They know about hard work.

“Mr Gold, Ms French,” she smiles, marching across the office, “a pleasure as always. Is it too much to hope that is about my next salary increase we were discussing last week?”

Her manner is always pleasant with the Gold-Frenchs, but all three of them have a firmly established silence agreement. She knows they have sources, probably know more about her past than she’s comfortable with, but if they never address it, she is happy to play along. Their relationship is amicably reserved for business only.

They both glance at one another and the wavering moment is long enough for Emma to know something is wrong.

“Emma, do you remember when you were working on that case that involved some associates in England and we asked you not to go to meet them while they sorted out your visa papers?” Belle pauses, gazing shifting momentarily to her husband, “But you went anyway.” Emma nods, still smiling. That had been a good case for her, challenging. Belle’s returning smile is tight as she grasps her hands together, fingers woven, “Well, it turns out immigration didn’t like that.”

“They didn’t… like it?” she says slowly, she can feel her grin slipping, the worry creeping in as Gold squeezes his wife’s shoulder gently.

“Emma, they’re deporting you.” She’s never understood truly that term before, you know, the one about a punch to the gut, but in the moment it feels like someone has drained all the air from the room. For a second, her vision blurs.

“Deporting me?” she repeats and Gold grips his cane as he inclines his head in confirmation.

“No, that can’t be happening,” she says, feeling the panic rise. She’s comfortable (not  _happy_ , but comfortable) for the first time in her life, “I’m from Canada. I can’t be  _deported_.” The word feels dirty in her mouth as she enunciates every syllable.

“I’m trained in New York law. I sat the bar in New York. I just made partner in  _New York_. My apartment is here. My things are here,” she knows she’s being to babble, internally winching at the shrillness of her voice, “I can’t practice law in  _Canada._ ”

“You’re a very good lawyer,” Gold’s voice is excessively gentle, “you can retrain.”

She thinks of all the years she’s spent working towards this, to be this, this person with the great job and the good track record, far from her past and the memories and the quick, horribly gut wrenching flashes of large, baby blue eyes. Instinctually, her hand reaches for the cuff of her shirt, fingers slowly dipping beneath the material to trace the barely raised skin of a tattoo.

“If there was a way to fix this, Emma, you know we would-.” Belle’s eyes are wide and Gold’s smile sympathetic, but she can still feel her own fists curling against her thighs as three sharp knocks ring out in the office air.

The door swings open and Killian Jones’ head promptly pops through.

“Apologies for the interruption, but our client, Mr Mendell, is waiting for Ms Swan and I downstairs.”

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, propped behind the piercing ringing of  _deportation, deportation, deportation_ is her anger about her coffee earlier and the fact that he’d lied to her (she has a thing for spotting lies, but secretly likes the new intern and was disgustingly grateful that he’d given her justification not to fire her) and she’s still scheming to disrupt his scheduled leave next week just on principal.

But, if the man isn’t disgustingly attractive. All large hands and scruff (not to mention the goddamn accent), he’s always hot office gossip, a known flirt, sleeps around a bit, but never ever getting with the same woman twice. She’d probably have jumped him herself, if his hatred of her wasn’t so glaring every time he so much as looked at her.

Emma’s all for hot hate sex (she has her kinks, so sue her), but she favours it when her partners don’t literally want her dead.

Still, what she wouldn’t give to release some tension with him, back preferably pressed against a wall, those hands in her hair, on her back, lower, always going lower.

For some probably sinful reason, that’s when the idea strikes her.

“Actually,” she grins at Belle, then back at a confused Jones, “there is a way we can fix this.” She holds out her hand and waves for Jones to step inside. He does so gingerly, she knows he’s not as familiar with the company’s heads as she is. He is hesitant as he makes his way towards her, confusion furrowing his brow and she prays to an unknown deity that Killian Jones is a good actor.

The moment he’s in touching distance, her arm is around his waist, pulling the heat of him towards her. His hip hits hard against hers, but she keeps her smile wide as her fingers dig into his side.

“Killian and I are getting married!”

She makes a conscious effort not to check his face.

“You’re getting married?!” Belle’s demeanour changes instantaneously, hands clapping together in delight as Gold’s face eases into a smile. Beside her, the tension practically radiates from Killian. She chances a glance up at him. He’s looking down at her in disbelief, jaw clenched, but he’s not saying anything so she just looks away again, back at the couple.

“We are,” she shrugs her shoulders in an effort to appear nonchalant, before dropping her arm from around his waist and finding his hand, squeezing it tightly in warning to just  _shut the fuck up, I’ll explain later_ , “And, honey, I know we had our heats set on a June wedding, but there’s this pesky problem with immigration, so we may need to push it up.”

“Push it up?” his voice is surprisingly stable as Belle continues to grin across from them.

“Yes,” Emma nods, “they want to deport me.”

“They want to deport you,” he says the words slowly, testing them in the air, before he blinks, twice, and she watches the realisation dawn on him, “Ah, of course, darling.”

Emma’s beginning to think her luck might actually hold out when Gold clears his throat loudly.

“I offer my congratulations on the upcoming nuptials dearies, but I fail to see how this solves the deportation issue,” his eyes, for a moment, are so astute Emma thinks he must have guessed the truth, “Aren’t you British, Mr Jones?”

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_  she bites down on the inside of her cheek. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Her hands feel like they’re beginning to sweat. This doesn’t solve anything and it’s too late to take it back now and  _fuck it all to hell_ she’s going to have to go back to Canada _._

“Raised in Britain by my mother, sir,” his accent, so lilting and downright attractive before, is mocking her now, “but it says American on my passport.”

It all rushes back then, the air and the ground suddenly feels solid beneath her and she’s glad for the heaviness of Killian Jones’ scent. Everything has stopped spinning and feels grounded and she lets go of his hand to step forward and take a card from Belle’s outstretched fingers as Gold says something. She barely registers the sound of his voice. She’s sure Jones nods beside her before they’re both out of the room, warm palm on her lower back guiding her away, through the door and past the secretary, into the elevator ( _he calls it a lift_ ).

“Swan,” he hisses, turning on her as soon as the doors close, “what the hell is going on? Since when are we getting married? Or even dating? Or talking civilly for that matter? And apparently having to go and see-” He pauses, studying the card which is pressed between his thumb and forefinger so hard it’s bending, “Ms Regina Mills down at immigration about  _our_   _wedding_ so that you won’t be  _deported_. Where are you even from? Oh my god, they’re right, you are a terrorist.”  His head hits the marble while he glares at her.

“Relax, would you?” she’s found her feet again, voice back to being hard and barking and this is the way she’s comfortable. She can handle this. She’ll just treat it like any other case. Where there’s a clear objective, Emma Swan never fails.

Goal: Do not get deported back to Canada. Means: Convince Killian Jones that marrying her is a good idea.

“You do realise this is illegal right, lass?” the timber of his voice is low as he jabs at the button for their floor, “I could lose my licence, go to jail.” She smirks at his choice of wording; he’s at least got the same priorities as her.

“Look, all we have to do is have this sham wedding, file for a quickie divorce six months from now and things go back to normal,” she offers him a confident smile. She feels empowered again, the shiny marble elevator another part of world she has complete control over.

He just stares at her, astonished at her gall.

“And, pray tell, why on earth would I go through with this?” his voice is heavy with incredulity, breath warm on her face in the cramped space. She smirks. She’s already thought of the answer.

“I’ll make sure you make partner this year.”

Everything pauses and he takes a step back from her, pressing himself back against the walls as he regards her carefully. She knows this is a sore spot for him, he was passed over for the position last year in favour of an older associate, Jefferson, who probably wasn’t the better of the two candidates.

“You saw us up there, Jones,” she gestures vaguely upwards, “Mr Gold and Ms French like me, but they also respect me. Probably more than anyone in this whole goddamn company.”

She straightens, throwing her chin up so she is almost the same height as him. They both know it’s the truth.

“If I tell them to make you partner, you’ll be partner,” he believes her, she can see it in his eyes, the way tension lines the corners, so she inhales deeply through her nose and presses on. One of her hands splays against the cool marble of the wall to steady herself, “But if I’m gone August is going to stop you, block any move to promote you at every turn.”

The truth flinches across his face, the harsh lighting doing nothing to help him in his is discomfort. August is a long standing member of the firm, a partner and a decent lawyer with an unexplained, but palpable, dislike for Killian Jones.

It’s the main reason Jefferson ever got partner in the first place.

Jones, for his part, leans his impeccably dressed frame against the wall (she must admit the man has excellent taste in suits) and closes his eyes. He is silent for a moment. His face relaxes.

He does not open his eyes until after he nods.

“Okay,” he agrees and she orders herself not to break her poised stanch and indulge in a moment of relief. He stares at her, teeth clenched together, “Alright. We can do this. Let’s meet with Mr Mendell and then go lie to a State Department official and commit a felony.”

“Yes,” she agrees as the elevator dings and her fingers deftly smooth out her skirt as she fixes on her client smile and adjusts herself in her shoes, “let’s.”

“This is fucked up, lass,” he mutters as the door open onto their floor and they emerge. Already she can see the news has reached their colleagues before they did, probably courtesy or Greta or Geraldine or whoever the hell the receptionist is. Everyone is staring as she they push through the glass doors, but Emma continues to smile, only pausing briefly by Killian’s office to throw a response over her shoulder. She clutches at his hand for a moment, just for show.

“Yes,” she replies, “it really is.”

/

“I understand keeping it from your co-workers due to Mr Jones’ upcoming promotion, but you haven’t told any of your family?” Ms Mills is understandably sceptical of their relationship–understandably, because she’s right – looking between Killian and Emma in quick succession, pen tapping rhythmically on the file she has open in front of her.

Emma holds her hands up, smile polite as she shrugs.

“None to tell.” For a moment, he swears he sees something flash across her face before it’s gone again and the façade is re-established.

“And you, Mr Jones,” Emma is gripping his left hand so tightly, he has to worry it might fall off, “do your family know?”

“We’re actually going home to visit them for the week,” he says and it’s only half a lie. This was his original plan and he’d thought of it on the subway ride down here in an effort to ensure he’d get to see the Nolans and his brother, regardless of this ridiculous lie they’re embarking on, “Tell them all in one go.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Regina’s voice is anything but, as she glances down at her notes, “and where is home?” She looks expectantly at Emma, but she’s just staring at him, gaze hard.

“Storybrooke,” he says instead, because there’s no way she’ll know. He imagines she’s already fuming, furious at the idea of using her own leave, not to mention her time, to accompany him on a trip home. But, she can just learn to deal with it, he decides. He’s risking prison for her, after all.

And death. His brother is going to kill him.

“Storybrooke, Maine.”

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> You can find my on tumblr at just-like--clockwork.tumblr.com!


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